My father has forbidden me from picking up my daughter, worried that I am being far too gentle with his granddaughter. Lately, my little girl has started to crawl, and every time I step out of the room, she follows me, eager to be scooped up into my arms. Her grandfather has cautioned me not to spoil her, saying she will learn to manage on her own if she remains on the floor. Despite his words, I find myself unable to resist her; every time her little hands reach for me, I fold her to my chest, which sends my thoughts spirallingam I really overprotective?
I must admit, I tend to be terribly soft with her. I soothe her when she cries, shower her with gentleness, and rarely ever raise my voice. Perhaps I am trying to make up for the warmth and care that slipped through the cracks of my own childhood. My mother died when I was very young, and I never knew my birth parents. I grew up in a childrens home on the outskirts of Leeds, until my cousins family heard of my circumstances and took me in, giving me a new roof and a place at their table.
It wasnt easy at first. My fathermy cousins fatherwas a reserved man, and my mother was always working, busy with her cleaning job and shopping lists, leaving little space in the day for affection. I never doubted they cared for me, but the words stayed locked behind their lips. So I spun my own tales, tumbled into daydreams in which I was showered with praise, a princess in a kingdom ruled by kindness.
As I grew older, I yearned for affirmation and warmth from othersespecially in romance. I clung to any scrap of affection and lost years in a relationship that left me more lonely than before, afraid Id never stumble upon love again. My husband now is patient and understands much of my past, though not every shadow in it. Despite all Ive been through, I cannot help but smother my daughter with the sort of love I missed as a girl. She deserves every drop of it, every gentle word and warm embracein a way I never quite did.
